


By the Weight of My Sins

by nosmokingpistol



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Tomarcus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 16:51:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13551561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosmokingpistol/pseuds/nosmokingpistol
Summary: They had nowhere to go. A wall of granite and wood and splintered pews came rolling towards them. Marcus blindly threw Tomas out of its path and the momentum spun him around and directly into it. As the boards and stone blocks roared towards him, Marcus closed his eyes to his fate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my dear friend and beta Basmathgirl.

Word had come late in the afternoon in the form of one hastily whispered sentence over Tomas’ burner phone. The caller ID indicated that the call was from Mouse but the deep, clipped voice was not hers. “I have it on good authority that your friend is being held in the basement of St. Michael’s church.” There was no threat, no ultimatum, and above all no instructions for her release. Mouse had left their rooms in one of Lincoln Iowa’s back road motels that morning to gas up the truck, and stock up on food and water for the road.  She hadn’t come back; nor had she answered her phone. Marcus and Tomas had spent the afternoon pacing nervously and praying for her safe return.

“Dammit. _Dammit!”_ Marcus barked, and combed his hand through his cropped hair. He retrieved his jacket from the back of the desk chair and reached out his hand. “I need money for the bus, Tomas. If we’re not back by morning assume the worst, steal a car, and get the hell out of here.”

Tomas quickly removed and tore his sim card. “Absolutely not. You’re not going there alone, Marcus. We don’t even know if this is true, or if it’s another one of Bennett’s traps. Let’s call Father Bello and --”

“And what? Ask him if there’s a hostage in an abandoned church? Remember, he told us the rector of St. Michael’s  had been sent to Rome. What if Bello’s a part of it all? The Friars of Ascension have acolytes in every state now. _Think_ , for God’s sake!”

It was hard for Tomas to imagine the rosy-cheeked, amiable Father Eugene Bello as an instrument of Lucifer. They had received word through the underground that the priest’s young niece had been possessed and they had hurried to Lincoln. The exorcism had been completed quickly and without incident. He tried to assess the situation with Marcus’ more jaded eye. “I suppose he could have facilitated the possession. He could have mentioned it online, hoping the underground would get word to us as a way to lure us here.”

Marcus couldn’t help but smile and clapped Tomas on the shoulder. “There you go! Keep that up and you’ll be a cynical old bastard like me in no time.”

“You flatter me. I’m still going with you.”

*** ***

Marcus loved old, forlorn churches. They spoke of the piety of the poor and the beneficence of the wealthy.  They held aged wooden floors with warped wide strips,  pews that bore the shine made by decades of worsted suits and cotton dresses, and the scent of incense seeped into every corner. As they approached St. Michael’s, however, he felt only dread. The Cady Road bus had left them off two blocks away and they had circled the church but had seen no lights. The basement windows were made of thick smoked glass and not a sound could be heard coming from the building.

They climbed the stairs and stood in front of the wide double doors. Marcus grasped one massive handle and Tomas stilled him with a touch. He made the sign of the cross and Marcus followed suit. They bowed their heads and Tomas whispered a prayer, reaching out to clasp Marcus’ hands in his.  “Lord, you are our refuge and fortress.  We ask you to walk with us and protect us from those who would harm us, and those who would harm your church. We ask you to guard us from the evil one. In the holy name of Jesus we pray.”

“Amen.” Marcus gingerly tried the handle; the door was unlocked. He threw a look at Tomas as they entered the vestibule. They stood there for a while until their eyes acclimated to the dark. Marcus dipped his fingers into a font, but it was dry. When they were sure they were alone, each man chose an aisle, switched on their flash lights and began walking slowly.  Marcus reached the altar first and gasped. Tomas turned in time to see him fall to his knees. Father Bello lay dead, badly beaten around the face and head. The altar had been damaged and smeared with his blood. Marcus handed Tomas his stole and a small bottle of holy oil from his backpack, and bowed his head in prayer as Tomas anointed the slain priest. As they stood, Marcus saw a small pile of bloodied, shattered stone and pulverized bone next to the broken altar base.

Marcus shook with anger and he choked back tears. “They must have lured him here, too. They defiled the altar -- they murdered him with the altar stone and destroyed the relics. This church was still sacred. Oh, it must have made those bastards retch to set foot in here.”

“There will be time to notify the police later, Marcus, so they can try to find who did this. The blood is still wet; whoever murdered him could still be in here. We need to find Mouse and get out.”

They continued walking past the sacristy and offices until they came to the basement stairs.  They descended and opened the door to what must have been the church’s reception room. One end of the generous space held a galley kitchen, the other stacks of folded tables and chairs. There was no sign of Mouse. Tomas circled his flash like a search light and led the way to a door with a utilities sign. It led to another set of stairs and they made their way down to the dank sub-basement. They passed a rusted old cistern, circuit boxes, and discarded typewriters. Marcus scratched the back of his neck and sighed.

“It’s clear they don’t have Mouse here. Maybe they just wanted us to find Father Bello. I don’t know – maybe they thought they could scare us off?”

Tomas shook his head. “We’re exorcists, Marcus. They’d hardly think a dead body would scare us off.” They turned to head back towards the stairs when Marcus stopped Tomas abruptly with a hand to his belly.

“Shh!” There was music coming from above them.  A reverb followed by a heavy metal vocal. He’d heard the song before, many times, courtesy of a head banger in Muncie who used it to drown out the sound of his dad’s exorcism and his mother’s wails. “Godsmack!”

“What?”

“It’s a band. Someone’s trying to tell us something. The song is… Oh, God. It’s ‘Time Bomb’.   _Run!”_

They had only made it fifteen feet across the room when the bombs went off. The floor heaved and they clung to each other for balance. Debris quickly blocked the stairs. They had nowhere to go. A wall of granite and wood and splintered pews came rolling towards them. Marcus blindly threw Tomas out of its path and the momentum spun him around and directly into it. As the boards and stone blocks roared towards him, Marcus closed his eyes to his fate.

Tomas had landed on a protruding piece of cement, and heard the crack of breaking ribs. He saw Marcus fall and become trapped; he was clearly unconscious. The ceiling had caved, and with the ruins of the church surrounding them there was little room to move. Tomas began to drag himself closer; there was no room to stand. A pew slid off one of the massive granite blocks and landed across him, hitting the back of his head and breaking his leg.  Before he lost consciousness he opened his mouth, intending to call out to God for help. Only one word escaped his lips.

_“Marcus”._

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tomas felt Marcus’ hand go limp in his. He turned off the flashlight and wept in the dark and dust. He knew God was with them. He believed it. He also believed as his abuela had – that God is closest to us in the time of dying. If that were true, then God must be very near to Marcus Keane.

Tomas slowly regained consciousness, confused at first as to why he was lying with his cheek pressed into the keyboard of an old Royal typewriter. His hand was wedged under a broken kneeler and he wriggled it free, reminded immediately of the bombs that had destroyed the church and trapped them beneath the rubble. He smelled no smoke or gas. He breathed a sigh of relief.  The utilities must have already been cut off due to the church’s closure.

He slid out from under the fallen pew, cursing under his breath as he realized not only some ribs, but his leg was broken as well. The knot on the back of his head was pounding, and he felt vaguely nauseous and dizzy. He had taken enough first aid courses at the insistence of his sister to know the signs of a concussion. He gritted his teeth and dragged himself over to Marcus. Despite his best efforts he could not stop himself from moaning in pain.

“Marcus?” Tomas scrubbed a hand over his face, wiping away some of the dust that had crusted around his mouth and eyes. He could make out a vague outline of Marcus and as he got closer he felt something under his hand.  His own flash light had been lost when Marcus had thrown him out of the path of the oncoming avalanche of debris, but amazingly Marcus’ lay within his grasp. He pushed the switch and aimed it at Marcus. What he saw was far worse than he had expected.

 _“¡Madre de Dios!”_ Marcus lay on his back. A pile of church pews, wooden beams, floorboards and plaster covered his legs and hips. One of the granite cornerstones and another granite block compressed and held them in place; they in turn were wedged in by more debris. Marcus’ breaths came in shaky gasps ending in whimpers of pain and a sheen of sweat glistened on his pale forehead. Tomas closed the distance between them and placed two fingers against Marcus’ neck. His pulse was weak and irregular and his skin cold and clammy. Marcus was in shock.

Tomas surveyed the pile of rubble. If he could dislodge one of the granite blocks and get it to slide the other way perhaps he could relieve some of the pressure on Marcus’ body. There was no room to stand, so he propped himself on one knee, letting it take his weight to avoid worsening the fracture. He braced his good leg next to it, put his shoulder to the nearest block and pushed. He gained no movement and repositioned himself, ignoring the pain from his broken ribs. _“Ayúdame, por favor. Ayúdame, mi Dios.”_ He felt the block begin to move and pushed again.

Tomas felt Marcus’ hand batting weakly at his arm and stopped. He elbowed his way back to where he could make out Marcus’ face in the dark and dust. A thin line of blood moistened Marcus’ lips, spattering his chin as he struggled to breathe, and he was clawing at his throat. One of the pews had shifted and was now compressed under the block.  It straddled his belly and chest, preventing him from drawing a breath.

Tomas quickly unbuckled the straps of the backpack wedged under Marcus’ back and wound them around his hands. He pulled with all his might, praying that they wouldn’t tear, and gave silent thanks as the pack slid towards him, allowing Marcus to sink into the small void left behind. With new space to expand his chest Marcus sucked in a breath that ended in a hoarse cry of agony. “Please… no more. Please.” Marcus reached out his hand and Tomas clasped it with both hands, bringing it to his lips.

“I’m sorry. No more, I promise,” Tomas murmured. “There will be people coming to rescue us, Marcus. And God is here. I feel His presence.” Tomas felt Marcus’ hand go limp in his. He turned off the flashlight and wept in the dark and dust. He knew God was with them. He believed it. He also believed as his abuela had – that God is closest to us in the time of dying. If that were true, then God must be very near to Marcus Keane. Tomas lay down next to Marcus, hoping to warm him with his own body heat. Within moments he had closed his eyes and fallen into unconsciousness again.

*** ***

Tomas came to with a start. He could still hear Marcus breathing beside him. He flicked on the flash light and checked the time on his cracked watch. Ninety minutes had passed since the bombs. One of his school mates in Mexico had an uncle who was a medic at the earthquake of 1985. He had said that there were people who died after they were rescued because the damaged muscles released chemicals into the bloodstream after the weight was lifted from their bodies. It caused severe and rapid organ failure. Tomas frowned. The longer a rescue took, the more risk there was for Crush Syndrome and the more Marcus’ life would be in danger. Marcus opened his eyes and groaned. “Tomas? Are you there?”

“I’m right here. I’m right beside you.” Tomas rooted through the worn knapsack and withdrew the bottle of holy oil and his stole. Excommunication be damned. He would not deny Marcus the blessing of the anointing of the sick. He would not deny him any sacrament if it came to that. He made the sign of the cross, and moved in closer, placing his hands on Marcus’ forehead. 

“Least you could do… is use a wet flannel.” Marcus wheezed. 

“Shut up. Through this holy anointing–”

 “No, Tomas, it’s a sin!” Marcus’ stern look became a grimace and his eyes rolled back in his head. Tomas cupped his cheek and gently patted it.

“Marcus!” Marcus’ eyelids fluttered and he mumbled something unintelligible. Tomas quickly anointed his forehead and palms. “May the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit. May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.”

Marcus tried to cough but could only manage a wet rattle in the back of his throat before he lost consciousness again. Tomas stretched out beside him and gently stroked his face, running his thumb along the blade of his cheek, savoring every crease and scar that reflected battles fought, and won, and lost. “Marcus! Marcus, come on now. Stay with me.” He felt hot tears on his cheeks and swiped at them with the back of his hand before edging in closer.

“Do you remember that old Clapton song we heard on the radio on the way to Cleveland? It made you cry like a baby and we had to pull the truck over so I could drive. When we got to the motel you called it in as a request and taped it on that old tape deck of yours. We played it a hundred times. You called it your theme song, remember?” He chuckled at the memory and put his mouth close to Marcus’ ear, singing softly. “Holy Mother, where are you? Tonight I feel broken in two. I’ve seen the stars fall from the sky–”

A thin, raspy voice joined in, off key and every word an effort. “Holy Mother, can’t keep from crying.” Marcus reached a hand out towards Tomas, who clasped it tightly. “Don’t wanna die, Tomas. Don’t want the bastards to win.”

“They won’t. I promise you. Help is on the way. Now close your eyes and rest.” He squeezed Marcus’ limp hand, gently stroked his bony wrist, trailed the length of his sinewy forearm. He traced the long and gnarled scar, and although his faith prescribed that he forgive the sinner he could not help but curse those who had attempted to take the life of the godliest man he knew.

*** ***

Tomas sat by Marcus, counting his breaths and praying silently for their rescue.  His head was pounding and he fought to remain conscious. The faint sound of dogs barking interrupted his litany. He had heard no sirens, but if their sound had been muffled by the debris, or if they had been dispatched when they both were unconscious, they could be rescue dogs rather than neighborhood strays. “Hey!” he shouted. “We’re here! We’re here!” The dogs barked again, and it seemed to Tomas that they were a little closer. It could take hours for a crew to dig their way down to them, but it was still a hopeful sign. “We’re here! Help us, please!”

“Tomas? Tomas?”

“I’m right here. I heard rescue dogs, Marcus! They’ll start to dig us out soon.” Tomas knew that the process of removing debris until a rescue team could reach them would take hours. He didn’t know if Marcus had that long.

“Oh, God. Oh, God I think I shat meself.” When a rising stench confirmed it Marcus fought back tears of humiliation. “Legs stopped hurtin’ though. ‘S good, eh?” They both knew it wasn’t. “Still here? Tomas?  I can’t see ya… Tomas?” His words were slurred now, and tinged with a rising panic.

“I’m here, I’m with you. Hold on. Please, Marcus…” Tomas’ voice was thick with emotion. Marcus was slowly dying, and he was helpless to stop it. All he could do was wait -- and pray.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite his pain he smirked at the memory of a particularly creative fantasy involving a Jenga tower and a tub of strawberry frosting. He supposed he should have felt embarrassment, or shame. Considering his predicament he reckoned he had little time for such self-indulgence. “Impure thoughts, too.”

“Santísimo Apóstol, San Judas Tadeo, amigo de Jesús, me pongo a tu cuidado en este momento difícil. Ayúdame a saber que no necesito enfrentar solo mis problemas…”

_Most holy Apostle, Saint Jude Thaddeus, friend of Jesus, I place myself in your care at this difficult time. Help me know that I need not face my troubles alone…_

Tomas had never asked the patron saint of hopeless causes for intercession before. In that dark and dusty basement, with Marcus’ condition deteriorating,  he prostrated himself  and prayed for both of them: healing for Marcus, and for himself the courage to accept what may lie ahead. Marcus had come into his life at a time when he needed guidance, and purpose. Tomas had grown to love him as a brother. Eventually, his love for Marcus had changed into something much more profound.

Lost in thought, Tomas almost didn’t hear the ragged whisper next to him.  Marcus was trying to say his confession but every word was a struggle and an agony. They had been taught in seminary that suffering can be redemptive. The belief that this was so spurred Tomas into action. “Marcus. We’re going to do this together, okay?” He made the sign of the cross and with what little room there was held Marcus’ hand and guided it for his own. He said the Act of Contrition, Marcus chiming in as he could. His voice became a little stronger with each familiar word.

Tomas clasped his hands over Marcus’ and felt a wave of comfort go through him. He knew he was breaking Canon Law, yet he had the overwhelming sense that God was holding them close. “Marcus. What is it that you wish to confess?” 

“You can’t absolve me, Tomas. Giving sacraments to me makes you complicit. It’s a mortal sin.” Marcus breath came in small gasps but he persevered, ever the fierce lion protecting his cub. “I’ll not let you. I ain’t worthy.”

“You _are_ worthy, Marcus! I won’t accept that you’re not!”  Tomas looked into Marcus’ eyes, those steel blue eyes so full of remorse and pain, and could no longer hold back his tears. “I pray that God will spare you -- but I also know that if you died tonight…” Tomas voice cracked and he felt Marcus squeeze his fingers. “Jesus himself would take you into his arms and welcome you to Heaven. Please, Marcus. Let me hear your confession.”

Marcus held Tomas’ gaze, amazed at the younger man’s conviction. Sometimes Tomas’ purity of faith and belief in the power of God’s love and forgiveness put his own to shame. “Oh, all right then,” he mumbled. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been almost a year since my last confession. I was jealous, Tomas, when God spoke to you and not to me. I nicked…” Marcus moaned loudly as a wave of pain hit him before continuing. “I nicked a jeep when I was comin’ to find ya. I didn’t… uhh” He grimaced as pain shot through his belly. Tomas cupped his cheek and gently stroked it with his thumb until the pain subsided.

“You also stole my bean burrito yesterday.”

Marcus’ chuckle dissolved into a cough. There was more blood spattered on his chin. Time was running out. “Yeah, I did. It was cold in the middle.” His expression darkened as he continued. “I killed Andy Kim.”

“You killed a demon. You were trying to save my life.”

“I refuted God’s will. I denied His love.” Marcus was weeping now, and his words became peppered with gasps. “I chose savin’ ya over obeying God’s commandment. That was the greater sin.”  Another wave of pain came that took his breath away. He struggled to move, to find relief, but there was little leeway in his prison of rubble. He felt himself begin to panic. His time was running out, and there was so much left to say. He reached out and grabbed a fist full of Tomas’ sweater. His words tumbled out in a rush, punctuated by groans as he gritted his teeth and tried to fight through the pain.

“Tomas, d’ya understand? I’d do it again, because I love ya. _That’s_ why I’m compromised. _That’s_ why I had to leave.” His hand fell to his chest and his head lolled to one side. He was growing weaker by the moment. Marcus wanted nothing more than to survive, and heal, and feel the heat of Tomas’ body against his own. The knowledge that these outcomes were unlikely caused him more pain than his broken body.

“I should add lust to my list of sins.” Despite his pain he smirked at the memory of a particularly creative fantasy involving a Jenga tower and a tub of strawberry frosting. He supposed he should have felt embarrassment, or shame. Considering his predicament he reckoned he had little time for such self-indulgence. “Impure thoughts, too.” He looked back at Tomas, and couldn’t see his smile in the darkness between them.

“I might have had those thoughts myself, Marcus -- because I love you, too.” Tomas leaned over and placed a soft, lingering kiss on Marcus’ forehead.  He tried to sear the feel and the taste of Marcus’ skin into his memory. “Now tell me– do you bear your suffering in the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ? Do you repent your sins?”

“Yeah.” Marcus voice was fading, his eyelids like leaden weights. He struggled to see Tomas’ face. 

“I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.” Tomas reached into the backpack for the tin of holy Eucharist and withdrew one, breaking it into small pieces. “The Viaticum, Marcus. Can you swallow it? Here. The body of Christ.” The final communion – spiritual food for the journey to life after death.

“Amen.” Marcus croaked. He let the pieces of wafer soften in his dry mouth and felt an overwhelming sense of peace. For the first time in his life someone other than God returned his love. He had never felt more blessed. If God willed it he would survive, and he would give thanks every day for the miracle of Tomas Ortega. He would worship at the temple that was his chiseled body and cherish his heart as he did the sacred hearts of all the saints. 

“May the Lord Jesus Christ protect you and lead you to eternal life.” Tomas crawled close enough to whisper in Marcus’ ear. “But don’t you leave me yet. You are still needed here. You are wanted, and I will not watch you die.”  He rested his head on Marcus’ shoulder and watched the shaky rise and fall of his chest. “Por favor Dios no me lo quites.” he whispered into the dark.  _Please God don’t take him from me._

Tomas curled his hand around Marcus’ wrist and marked his pulse. With every slow but steady beat it seemed the throbbing pain in his own body changed until they became synchronized as one. Tomas was too tired to bother distinguishing if it was fact or an illusion. He closed his eyes and buried his face in Marcus’ worn and rumpled jacket, relishing the familiar scent of old leather, smoke, and clove. Within minutes Tomas was asleep.

*** ***

He dreamed of Mexico City. He had taken Marcus to a lucha libre match and then over to Plaza Garibaldi. They spent hours at an outdoor cantina, drinking tequila and dancing to the mariachi music, and they were happy. Marcus was relaxed and laughing, and Tomas thought he’d never seen anything more beautiful than Marcus’ eyes as they twinkled in the moonlight.

A strange man in a stylish suit came over and sat next to them. Marcus didn’t seem to notice, but when the man leaned close and whispered in Tomas’ ear he felt a chill pass through his body. “What would you give me,” he said. “for the life of your friend?” The man grasped Tomas’ chin, hard, and turned his head toward Marcus. “Only he’s more than a friend, isn’t he priest? You are weak and you are already tainted. Grant me your immortal soul and I will see that he lives until he is very old. He will have many years to serve as the vessel for your pleasure.”

Insects flew out of the man’s eyes and ears, deformed wasps that tried to land on Tomas’ face. He batted them away but still they came. As the buzzing got louder and louder the man’s mouth opened like a hinge and became a cavernous void. “Answer me, priest!” his voice echoed from the nothingness. “Do you hear me? Answer me!”

Tomas could only scream as the void swallowed him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your life is in as much danger as his” the medic snapped as he nodded toward Marcus. “Don’t think it isn’t.”

Tomas awoke with a start, his own cries having roused him. A flood light illuminated particles of dust and wood that were falling on them like snow, and a stranger in a helmet and filter apparatus was threading a fiber optic camera through a small opening in the debris above them. “Can you hear me in there? Can you move?”

“Yes! I can, but my… my friend, he’s hurt. It’s bad, it’s…” Tomas fought back tears of relief. Help was at hand, and he had to believe that it wasn’t too late. “It’s bad, from the waist down he’s trapped. Stone and wood –" 

“What’s your name?”

“Tomas.”

“Okay, Tomas, I’m Jake. I need you to help me. Can you reach the camera? I need you to thread it into an opening where your friend is trapped. Someplace where we can see what we’re dealing with. I’ll take it from there.” It seemed like an eternity before he heard Jake’s voice again, shouting to another member of the rescue team.

“Benny! Get Doctor Jennings over here, we need Crush Protocol. We’ll need a lift and baskets.” Jake’s head reappeared at the opening. “Tomas, we’re going to lift you out first, we need to make room for the medics to work on your friend. First we need to make the opening a lot bigger, okay?”

Tomas nodded and the effort caused a wave of dizziness and nausea. He turned his head and retched. “Tomas?” Jake called. “Still with me?” Tomas waved, still fighting off nausea. “Is the nausea and headache better, or is it getting worse?”

“Worse,” he croaked. “But I’m okay. I’m… uh… fine.” He took deep breaths until his head cleared a little and the retching stopped.

Jake shouted again to someone Tomas could not see. “Doc! Closed head injury, possible escalation!”

Jake lowered two hard hats, safety glasses and a tarp in a small basket. As instructed, Tomas put one of the hats on himself, wincing as it rubbed against the lump on the back of his head. He then wriggled back to attend to Marcus. He gently worked his hand under the nape of his neck and lifted his head just enough to seat the hat securely. The movement elicited a low moan from Marcus. He opened his eyes and smirked at the vision of Tomas in a construction helmet.

“Bit early for us to role play, don’t ya think?”  he mumbled. “What’s this, then – the builder and the brain box?” 

Tomas shook his head, smiling, as he fitted their protective glasses. “One day you will teach me that game. For now, I need to cover us up. The rescue team is here, and they’re going to create a lot of debris.” Tomas spread the tarp out over both of them, pulling it over their heads, and snuggling closer to Marcus. “By the way, I will be the builder. You will be the professor.”

“Brain box.”

“Whatever. For now, we wait.”

“I think you should kiss me.” Marcus whispered a few minutes later, in the dark under the tarp.

“See? I _knew_ you were the brain box!”

*** ***

Tomas checked Marcus’ pulse after a lingering kiss, an effort met with grunts of disapproval. It wasn’t long, however, before Marcus lost consciousness again and his pulse became irregular. It took another hour for enough space to be created to allow the medic and his equipment to be lowered, followed by a litter basket. The medic gently peeled the tarp away and Tomas blinked at the light, suddenly dizzy. He had difficulty focusing on the man before him and cried out in pain as a pen light was shone in first one eye, then the other. He grimaced and stilled the doctor’s hand with his own.

“Doctor,  please help Marcus first. I’m okay, I can wait until --” His protestation was interrupted by a new wave of nausea. He turned his head to the side as he gagged. His stomach was empty, but the effort caused a searing pain in his head.

The medic seemed startled at first to see Tomas’ bedraggled collar. He quickly recovered and moved in closer.  “I’m Doctor Jennings. We need to get you out first so we have room to free up your friend. Okay?” As Tomas nodded his assent he reached for the portable oxygen tanks, placing one mask for the unconscious Marcus and one for Tomas. “You have symptoms of a traumatic brain injury. That has to be the priority here. Is there anything broken, any other pain Father Tomas?” He leaned in closer and whispered. “I know who you are. You and your friend cast out the demon.”

Perplexed at how this stranger had such knowledge, Tomas began to shove him away, unsure if the man could be trusted. Jennings reached out and intercepted the movement. “It’s okay. I’m a friend.” He lowered his voice. “Gene Bello’s brother is my best friend. I’m Godfather to his daughter Stacy.” Stacy Bello had been the subject of the exorcism that had brought them to Lincoln at Father Eugene Bello’s request. Tomas nodded and lowered his hand.

“Father Bello is dead. We found his body before the bombs went off. He was murdered.”

“Oh, dear God no. Gene…” the physician shook off his grief for the moment and focused on his patient. ‘Tell me what else you’ve got.”

“I’ve got a broken leg, here…” He pointed to the odd slant of his tibia and gasped as the doctor palpated it. “And I think some ribs; it hurts like hell when I brake... No, when I brace… _breathe_. Dammit, I can’t think.”

“You’ve had some brain injury, Father, and it may be swelling inside your skull” Jennings replied, not unkindly. “All right, let’s get a temporary cast on this leg and get you lifted out of here. We’ve got ambulances standing by–”

“No!” Tomas whispered fiercely. He glanced back at Marcus. “I’m not going anywhere until he’s out of here. It’s not safe for us in a hospital, that’s how they…” He thought of Bennett, bed bound and helpless as somehow the Friars of Ascension  damned his soul. In his mind he could see his face but couldn’t remember his name. “That’s how they got to a friend of ours.” 

“Your life is in as much danger as his” the medic snapped as he nodded toward Marcus. “Don’t think it isn’t.”

Tomas winced as the air cast’s straps were tightened and stilled the medic’s hand with his own. “Listen to me. This explosion was not an accident. We received a message that a friend of ours was being held in the basement  here. Father Bello told us when we arrived that this church had been closed months ago and the rector had been sent to...  someplace else.” Tomas pounded his fist on his thigh in frustration.  He desperately needed to speak for himself and for Marcus.

“Rome. That’s why Gene had been so busy at Saint Rita’s - most of the congregation moved there, and the rector never came back.” Jennings thought a moment and gave Tomas’ arm a reassuring squeeze. “Listen, Gene had mentioned some concerns he’d had about a conspiracy in the Church. After this I’m inclined to believe it.” He helped Tomas into the litter basket and secured the safety restraints.

“My cousin is the Chief of Police. My wife is the County Coroner. If there were to be a press conference about your tragic deaths when you tried to rescue Gene during the explosion, I think I could arrange to have two John Does admitted to the hospital. Maybe have some plain clothes hang around. Sound okay?”

Tomas felt a wave of relief wash over him. He was hesitant to trust strangers, but this man seemed to have been sent by God. He took a leap of faith and clasped the doctor’s hand. “Thank you, yes.”  On the other hand there was nothing wrong with erring on the side of caution. “Just one thing, before they bring me up…” The determined look on Tomas Ortega’s face as he made his requests would ordinarily have provoked anger in the physician, whose only concern was getting his patient the urgent care he needed. Weighing his options, he figured it was more expeditious just to give in.

*** ***

Father Tomas Ortega sat on a gurney in the back of an ambulance parked near the rubble of the church, propped up on three extra pillows. His eyes were glued to the monitor, transmitting from the camera that he had insisted be placed to show Marcus Keane. The radio base he had also insisted upon was next to the monitor, and Dr. Jennings, as instructed, gave a running commentary of every action taken on Marcus’ behalf. 

He knew IVs needed to be run, blood volume increased, electrolytes managed, all to avoid organ failure. He had his rosary in one hand and with the other tried to Google the medical center stats on a smart phone borrowed from the paramedic. She, in turn, was monitoring Tomas’ blood pressure and oxygen levels and trying politely but firmly to start his IV.

“You need to stop wiggling, Father.” Her name tag said Achala but Tomas had trouble focusing. “We need to start getting some meds into you.” She knew that her patient had verbally refused to give consent for transport but she was damned if he was going to die here in her ambulance. The rescue team was ready to leverage the granite blocks that had been immobilizing Marcus. Dr. Jennings stood in front of the camera, grim-faced, and wiped sweat from his brow before speaking into the radio.

“Father Tomas, I’ve just given Marcus a large dose of morphine. He’s still going to experience a significant amount of pain. This could go well, or things could go downhill quickly. Even if we avoid Crush Syndrome, even if there’s no organ damage, there’s no guarantee we can save his legs.”

“I know.” His vision was blurry, only accentuating his nausea. He put his rosary in his pocket and Achala handed him a kidney basin. He placed it in his lap, just in case.  Dr. Jennings returned to Marcus’ side as Jake signaled to his crew standing by the pneumatic lifts and jacks.

Achala squeezed Tomas’ shoulder and reached over him to turn off the radio. “You don’t need to hear this” she said. She took her phone out of his trembling hand and slid it into her pocket.  

He crossed himself and began whispering prayers in Spanish as tears streamed down his face. He watched Marcus throw his head back and scream as the blocks were removed, and choked back a scream of his own as Marcus’ limp, bloody body was transferred to the litter basket. When at last the litter was lifted out of sight he slumped back on the gurney. The paramedic quickly inserted his own IV line and injected a bolus of medication.. He shot a look at her, raising his eyebrows inquisitively.

“Something for the nausea, Father, and some morphine for the pain.” She removed the extra pillows and settled him back on his gurney. “I need to buckle you in; we’ll be heading out soon.”

He heard Jennings shouting outside as the drugs began to take effect. The urgency in his voice as he barked orders to the others broke through Tomas’ growing stupor and he reached out his hand, grasping at the air. “Marcus?” The only answer he heard was a siren and the crunch of gravel.

Achala took his hand and whispered reassuringly as a second paramedic entered and the door was closed. “He’s in good hands, Father. The trauma center at Staunton-Howie is the best in the state. And he has your God watching over him.”

Tomas could only nod. _“God, and me.”_ he thought as he closed his eyes. It was time to let go, and trust the Father to hold them both close. His last thought before sleep came was Marcus’ favorite verse from Psalm 28:7.

_The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in Him and I am helped. Therefore my heart exults, and with my song I shall thank Him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> Thus ends the angsty little tale, with our boys in good hands. There is room for more: treatment and intrigue at the hospital, the after effects and challenges of their injuries, maybe a pain medication addiction, finding Mouse, and some follow up to those declarations of love (and that Jenga/frosting fantasy). 
> 
> If you're interested in more, please comment and let me know.


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